


This is you and this is me

by Bitsybonbon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsybonbon/pseuds/Bitsybonbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The change from friends to more than that was gradual and very, well, pleasant! Now time spent doing nothing can be spent together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is you and this is me

**Author's Note:**

> I CAN'T STOP PLEASE HELP ME  
> This was inspired by my mom telling me this was how she should have introduced my dad at a party.  
> No but seriously please stop me

It was a little involuntary and lots unexpected, but it wasn't unwelcome.  
So you and a friend liked each other--all friends should--and so the change from friends to boyfriends was gradual and, frankly, unnoticeable.  
One day it was Dave and you hanging around giving each other commentary on, say, the latest patch on the newest games you either shared or both played between bites of greasy but delicious foods that were probably on some FDA posters. The next it was Dave wrapping an arm around your shoulders because you didn't bring a jacket out to the park, and the next it was slipping a hand into each other's back pockets like they did in the cliché movies you loved to watch and he loved to humor you by watching. It wasn't that big a deal.  
In fact, you kind of loved it, having someone to spend time with not doing anything in particular and it was really definitely cute the way you could tangle your legs together so comfortably and just _be_. (You can swear he always tries to count your freckles during those sessions, no matter how hard he smacks your arm in response, because that's exactly what you're doing with him. The total is 93, by the way.)  
It was just really great to have a best friend that was the best thing to happen to you and thought the same. And kissing. Kissing was the greatest plus. You both (silently) agreed on that bit.  
Going out together was just as nice as staying in together, and Dave was often invited to whoever's house it was that was having the loudest party and you tagged along with him for every one--resisting free sugary drinks and new kids for prankifying was not on your to-do list, and access to a new set of turntables wasn't often denied by Dave himself.  
Currently you've downed your second glass of something not purple, not red and not quite fuchsia either, and are pouring yourself another gallon or so. You're something of a drink connoisseur and this gets _maybe_ a four out of ten stars. There's a hint of something fizzy in it, sure, but it's got little left to offer. There's an aftertaste of something dreadfully artificial at the back of your mouth and leaves you smacking your lips for too long a while after the last sip. You swear that if this next cup doesn't taste any better you're complaining to the manager/party host.  
Before your next taste test you spot a copper light bouncing off some familiar platinum hair making its way to the stage (these people have a stage in their house! If it had even a keyboard you'd be spending most of your night up there with your pianist digits). You smile without even really knowing why and "forget" your half-empty plastic cup on the counter to weave through the crowd of screeching teens--you're not entirely sure what they're excited about because Dave hasn't even gotten on stage yet but maybe they, like you, find his wearing the gigantic Aviators indoors amusing yet endearing.  
You've shuffled yourself around as much as you can and you're one or two ladies away from being right in front of Dave but this it’s an admittedly nice spot. You wave and sway with the best of them and Dave carries on doing what he does best and strengthens up the rhythm in the room.  
Your insides feel bubbly, the kind of bubbly you'd give ten stars to, and you try to convey that with vocal encouragement and it works because Dave notices and you're sure he's trying to not smile back.  
You give a wink and you hope he winks back--you can't see his eyes through those shades (in fact, you're not entirely positive he even has any) and how he himself sees anything is a mystery.  
This isn't your genre of music but you can dance to it, and you do, until the song fades out into the air and is replaced by the roaring crowd once more.  
Dave shushes the crowd with a wave of the hand, using the other to grab the mic and thank everyone for joining him in this party and engorging his thick feets.  
Either you heard something wrong or Dave is having an episode of some sort because you really don't think that anybody has engorged anyone's feet lately. Or ever. Whatever that means. Besides, his feet aren't even that thick; he's like a size eight or something. You just smile and nod until he finishes his apparent speech (something about harlots and a boysenberry? You give up and don't even want to ask him what he actually said) until he spots you again and waves you over. You almost pop right there but you're happy, and especially happy that there's a red spotlight on you since no one can see that you're actually truly crimson.  
Dave is waiting, arm outstretched to you, expressionless. In another second or so his eyebrow will raise in a snotty way, if eyebrows can be snotty.  
Everybody is already staring so you throw caution to the wind and also a hand out that most likely jabs someone in their unlucky face to grab Dave's, and he hoists you up and steadies you when one foot slides when it shouldn't and you're being overwhelmed!  
You've shoved your hands into their respective pockets and though he might look it Dave isn't blind and can tell you're trembling something awful.  
Obviously he must think you need one more sensation to take you to the Heart Attack Station because he loops the microphoneless arm around your ribs and drags you over to lean on him. Whether to hold you up or warm you up you can't quite tell, but you certainly feel like you’re going to burst into flames.  
You kind of side-eye him and wriggle a little--he's got an iron grip, does he know that?--and he gives you a reassuring squeeze. You think it's reassuring; he might just want to make you stop moving, or breathing.  
This has all happened in less than a quarter of a minute and you don't know how much more of this you can take. Just before you try voicing your opinion on the matter to Dave, he swings the mic up to his mouth again and with the most nonchalant voice breathes out  
"This is my love monkey, John Egbert."  
It was so smooth you can't decide between if you want to melt right out of his arms and into a little puddle or start screaming hysterically off the stage and out the door. How would a combination go, do you think?  
There's a mixed reaction from the audience (some "awww" and some "nooo") but it's all in good fun, and soon everyone is cheering and throwing panties everywhere again.  
Dave nudges your temple, making you jump and then stare at him until you realize, he was probably actually leaning his head against yours. Your face burns up again. If it ever actually stopped.  
You get dragged off the stage by Dave, who is now asking what's wrong with you, if you drank too much of that neon pop and if now some self-induced vomiting is needed. It's not, and you chuckle at him.  
"What."  
"Nothing."  
"What are you giggling about."  
"Nothing!"  
"What are you laughing at, John."  
He only calls you by your first name when he's 1) upset or 2) romantic 3) hallucinating, and you know he hasn't had any of the "neon pop" stuff and he certainly doesn't sound romantic so you decide to appease him.  
"You! You were funny up there."  
"How was I funny."  
You have to rest a hand on your stomach now because you're worried that you will vomit, you're laughing so hard. Dave remains stoic (and snippy).  
"You called me your 'love monkey.'"  
"So."  
"That's funny! I'm Dave Strider's love monkey!" You try not to but you snort anyway.  
Was that a hint of pink under Dave's sunglasses? Probably just the lighting, or your own beet red face reflecting off of his. But that isn't how faces work.  
Dave's thumbs are hooked into his pockets, much like how your hands were stuffed into yours earlier. "Is that not okay?"  
His voice actually has used an inflection--he's genuinely asking you, like, that had a question mark and everything!  
You curl your arm around his shoulders and pull him over until he bumps into yours. Now it's like you're Dave and Dave is you!  
"Of course it's okay," you assure him, resisting the urge to pinch the cheek your head is pressed against. Dave doesn't say anything and it takes all the strength in your body and even some other people's bodies to not fall into a heap on the floor and bust several guts.  
He won't take his hands out of his pockets, he's refusing to, so you just slip your hand into one of his and squeeze tight. He squeezes back.


End file.
